


Tales from the Parapocalypse

by Blitzdrake



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Parapocalypse, Slow Burn, Unhappyness ahead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blitzdrake/pseuds/Blitzdrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since the world ended, or most of it.  In one night, almost every non-spectral alive entered a dreamless coma from which none of them have yet to awake.  Now spectrals fight for control over what remains, while the few "normals," left hide from the supernatural-powered people roaming their world.</p><p>And for three friends in Mayview, survivors of the battle that brought about the end, life has devolved into a struggle to keep the refugee's they've gathered, safe and secure from their fellow Spectrals.  And until now they've managed, barely.  But there are changes in the wind.  Forgotten Foes, Forsaken Friends, and Forces both Spirit and Spectral alike will all too soon have cause to return to the town that brought about the Endless Night.  And their world might not survive a second... Parapocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Max: A Grudge against the World

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off the Apocalypse Wallpaper Zach has up on the Extras section of Paranatural, and first dreamed up during the Parapocalypse Fic writing challenge a month or so back. The first five chapters are shorter, to introduce the major players! I hope you enjoy this little AU I dreamed up! <3

The scent of tomato soup wafted teasingly, urging a rumble from Max's stomach, the aroma lazily drifting from a bowl hung over a low fire. A fire set low to prevent smoke and light from giving away his position. The bowl hung on a rusted chain, dangling from his bat by the spectral-powered magnetic whims of the sometimes-friend, sometimes-pain-in-my-ass grudge that hid within. Which was a vast improvement from how he and Scrap had gotten along at first. Back when he’d had fight to keep the angry grudge out of his head-space. Funny how, as all his friendships fell apart, the moody spirit and he grew closer. That or it was happy that he spent all his time patrolling a giant junkyard. Maybe Scrap just felt at home here.

The soup steamed, sounding its readiness with the soft pitter-patter of boiling bubbles. Max was about to reach for a spoon, when he heard the soft sound of metal scraping metal. _Rats?_  Max thought, before a voice cursed, low and soft, in a muffled whisper.

 _It’s too soon for Is and Ed to be back from their supply run._ Max dismissed that idea, then thought back to the ragtag survivors they were guarding, but dismissed them as well. The Normals didn't come this far out into the junkyard wastes around Mayview, and people didn't just go out for walks anymore. Not since the Endless Night. A name which was, in Max's opinion, the worst name ever for the end of the world. Especially since day and night still came and went. But people needed a name for it. For the night the world went to bed and less than one in ten-thousand Normals woke up. Now they all stayed hidden. Trying to avoid the notice of power mad Agents and spirit-hunting fanatics.

 _Besides, if it's one of ours, they'd have given me a signal. Something to keep me from turning them into a pincushion with a hail of nails._ He’d gotten good at using his magnetic tool. Very good. All thanks to coaching from Scrap.

The knowledge that an enemy was near brought a smile, unbidden, to Max’s lips. If someone was stalking him, it was either the Cousinhood or one of Hers. Either way, there'd be a fight. And Magneto-style tricks weren't the only thing Scrap had taught him. No one was better at nurturing anger and resentment than a Grudge.

Still, eager or not, Max wasn’t an idiot. He steeled himself to conceal his excitement. Less hungry anticipation for a fight and more hungry anticipation for soup. Blood red soup. Thick and spurting.  Warm.  Max felt himself lose his battle to hide the tense wildness building in him, as Scrap slithered through his thoughts as hungry as he was for a fight. Finally, to at least conceal the tremble in his hands, Max leaned in. He pretended to sniff his dinner. He went as far as licking his lips and closing his eyes, as if savoring the scent.

_Here I am…eyes closed, enjoying a moment of peace before dinner…tempting target aren't I? You know you want a piece of this._

Sure enough, the invitation was irresistible. The next time Max's ears perked up, it wasn't for a light scrape of metal. A clatter of sound, a cacophony of bangs and thumps signaled the charge. Curses and stumbles and thuds marked the failed attempt to charge across the uneven junkyard ground. Of course that was to be expected, Max had littered the area about his camp with debris. There wasn't a square foot of space that required less than one's full attention to navigate, lest you be caught unawares and lose your footing.

In one motion he turned, swinging his bat in a wide arc. With a mental nudge, he effortlessly released the hold his bat held on the chain. Released at the perfect moment in his swing, the soup went flying into the face of his charger. A flash of mauve spectral energy marked a hastily erected shield, and through the glare he caught the sight of a suit divided down the middle by a ridiculous zipper. _So. It's one of Hers then. Good, no having to hold back._

The shield might have stopped a Spectral shot. It would have stopped the bowl if he'd propelled it with spectral-powered magnetism. But it did nothing to stop a normal, momentum-powered-only, physical bowl, and more importantly, its boiling contents. A viscous, scalding, blood-red broth covered his assailants face. A scream and then angry red-pink shots, three or four, fired blindly from his target.  Max was already gone. In a smooth dive, he'd rolled and pulled up his own shield, before he even saw the soup connect.

Even so his defense was barely erected in time to ward off a second attack. A pair of glowing blue fists hammered into his shield from behind. Little blue wolves flashed into being on his attackers punches. Tiny azure jaws bit at the roiling black-and grey surface of his shield, but they couldn't open wide enough to get purchase. His attackers face contorted into a feral snarl to match her wolf-fist-strikes. Max felt his own face twist into a matching curl of hate, part his own anger and part Scraps. He gathered that rage, pulling the resentment and loathing into a small pinpoint focus, directed into the tip of one finger. Spectral shots were so easy now. Max couldn't believe how hard it had been five years ago.

Now Max had so many memories to call on. The night they lost Spender along with most of the world. The way Ed wouldn't, no, couldn't look at them, talk to them. The tired hunch in Isabel's shoulders as she retreated inward, spending more days in her head than out. The way she'd come screaming out her seclusion. Desperate to fight. Punching until her knuckles bled and she was numb again. The pain in Isaac’s eyes when Max had given him to the Consortium. The look of the betrayed. _Not on purpose, it was supposed to help him, to save him. She was supposed to help. We were all supposed to be on the same side._ And one memory worse. Of ashes and ruins. A desperate search to find something of Isaac to mourn.

Too late she saw the shot building. The pulsing, living glob of black-hot hate and guilt, both for her and himself. A paltry blue shield popped into being, but it might as well have been a soap bubble for all the chance it stood. Max wasn’t sure anything would have stood before the embodiment of his rage and shame. Anger at the insanity destroying his world. Guilt for millions of dreamers who would never wake. The bitter knowledge that all of it. Every last lost soul.   _Especially the one_. They were all his fault.


	2. Isabel: Tell me a Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabel Guerra. Survivor, Medium, ace fighter, master librarian.

Isabel lifted her shirt, just above the belly button, high enough to expose the purple-black of a bruise .  One of her ribs had taken a lucky strike.  _Maybe cracked, need to apply steady pressure on it, triple wrap bandages, stiff composition._   Rents in her knuckles gleamed in the pale light of the moon, red and sharp.  _Too deep.  They won’t stop bleeding on their own, single-wrap, use a flexible composition, so they wont pull when my hand moves._   Her jaw felt swollen to her fingers.  _Compress, stable enough to not tear apart if I wet it to keep it cool._ Isabel inspected her body with her eyes and fingers, finding all the little cuts and breaks from their fight, before dismissing them as less serious.  Well within the limits of her Spectral resilience to handle.  It was a routine, one designed to take her mind off of the silence.  The stillness that was a third companion to her and Ed on their return from foraging.  A presence that dominated their return to their base.  With a smooth motion, Isabel pressed the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other, finding a natural tear in the skin.  They came away with a stream of paper, long and thick.  A few practiced motions, made habit in the aftermath of hundreds of fights, and she'd formed the first bandage to her needs.  In minutes she had cocooned her injuries in paper bandages, all without missing a step or slowing down their walk.

 _Thank god I figured out that strange spirit dog’s power in time_ , Isabel thought for the thousandth time.  Who knew its trick was playing fetch.  All she had to do was overcome her fear of dogs and learn to like it.  Some of her Grandfather's most subversive work, but not fastest.  It still took three years to get over herself and figure it out.  But once she did, she learned that it would fetch anything of hers.  Anywhere.  Even a book buried under a mountain of earth.   A book she thought was lost to her.  A friend she thought was lost to her.  A friend that she wouldn’t ever lose again.  A friend she'd taken steps to make sure she couldn't lose again.

In Isabel'shead she felt a tickle, a skittering of invisible legs on a web that wormed its way through her mind.   Through her body.  Eightfold manipulated a deft weave of paper, delivering it through her Medium’s hand.  Isabel's practiced fingers folded it as it came out, through a combination of reflex and a little nudging from the spirit within.  Soon a small paper spider rested in her palm.  Isabel felt a smile try to form, but it faded as the wind ripped the little folded toy away.   

Her Grandfather hadn't been too happy about that.  Mediums were worse than relying on Tools in his eyes.  But it was worth his disapproval.  It was worth the price of an hourglass mark on her forehead.  Worth a gaping rent in the skin on the palm of each hand.  And it was a lot better than it could have been.  At least she wasn't manipulating poop as Eightfold had teased Ed and Max in the past.  

 _Though_ , Isabel picked a book out her backpack ripping a piece of a page free and slipping it into her mouth with a grimace.  She tried to ignore slick, chemical taste of the paper and ink as she chewed, _there are a few things I could live without._

 _But at least this lets me keep the few things I can’t lose._ Isabel directed that sentiment towards the spirit in her head and towards her companion.  A quick glance assured her that Ed trudged along, silent and stalwart.  A mute golem wrapped in camo suit and featureless mask.  Isabel opened her mouth to saysomething, to let him know how she felt. She stopped her steps, gathering her thoughts and courage.  She needed to do it now, before they were back with Max and lost this chance at privacy, this ghostly echo of the intimacy they once had.  Then she closed her mouth, again.  The hundredth time.  She still didn’t have the right words.  She had a lot of them.  She knew so many.  Every book Eightfold had ever eaten, every book they'deaten together was at Eightfold's command.  Isabel was sure in one of those, there was a tale, a story with the right words to fix this.  To fix him.  Even if she couldn't make the rest of the world right, there had to be somethingthat could at least fix her small part of it. 

The sound of Ed’s slow trudge stuttered, then ground to a stop.  The silence stretched and she looked up.  He was staring at her, or the vast round circles of his mask were aimed in her direction. 

WHAT?  His paintbrush spelled out the question, a hovering word, the closest she could get to his voice now.  The most any of them could get out of their friend.  Since the night the world fell apart. 

“I,” Isabel hunted through all the words she knew.  A vocabulary to leave a Rhodes Scholar gawking.  Nothing.  She withdrew inward, cursing herself for a coward.  Ed recognized the signs of withdrawal on her face and shrugged his shoulders.  He turned forward again, walking away.  The word ‘What?’ stretched thin by his retreating paintbrush, and then dissolved with a faint pop.  A trickle ofink fell to the earth in a black line.

Isabel thought back to the where it all went wrong, when this wall had come up between them.  The night that She’d called all Her Agents to the dream-world and revealed to them Her new vision.  Her new future.  A world where Spectrals ruled instead of operating from the shadows.  Stopped playing vigilantes and started playing Gods.  The night Spender died fighting Her.  The night that thing in Spender had broken free.  The night Ed lost…everything.  A Mentor, a friend, his voice, his…heart?  His soul?  Lost it trying standing between her and that, _nothingness_ that had surged out of Spender’s body.  The void given sentience.  Emptiness given hunger.  Hollowness given hate.

Isabel ran one hand along the knuckles of the other, eliciting a thrill of pain, a little stab.  A punishment for failing again.  But her bandages were already fast at work, infused with something from Eightfold.  Something that sped up the healing.  She sighed as she started walking after Ed. 

With one hand she reached upward, tracing the red little hourglass on her forehead.  The soft sound of skittering echoed in her ears, and the world fell away around her as she walked.  The shadows of cobwebs stretched between the piles of junk around them.  The metal refuse slowly took on the form of books.  Towers of titles stretched skyward, and the bumpy path under her feet faded into the hints ofspines, names stretching in front of and behind her.  Twain.  Hemmingway.   Dostoevsky.  Nietzsche.  Plato.  Socrates.  A trail of the best story tellers.  The brightest philosophers.  The darkest dreamers.  A path of knowledge writ in more languages than she’d ever known existed. 

_Isabel?_

The words were in her mind, a part of herself that wasn’t her, but could barely be distinguished at times.  She wondered again if Isaac had felt this close to his spirit before they'd ruined everything trying to help him.  Felt this blending, this closeness.   _Was that why Isaac snapped when we took it_ _away._ With a soft mental whisper she reached out to the one friend she could still talk to, who understood her.  The one who must have an answer, somewhere in the mental stack of tomes and tales.  In all the stories and sonnets.  The vast repository of things man had pondered about forgiveness.  About understanding.  About sickness.  About coping.  About loss.  _Eightfold_ , Isabel asked, her mental voice catching in a way she’d never permit of her real voice.  _Eightfold, please.  Tell me another story._


	3. Ed: Hollow Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of them survived the calamity unscathed, but while his friends may be rebuilding themselves, Ed can barely manage to keep himself from falling apart.

Isabel was talking to Eightfold again. her steps steadied into a smooth, trancelike rhythm.  It should bother him.  The fact that she spent more time in there than out.  That she had to go in there, because they weren't talking.  He knew it should bother him.  He remembered it bothering him in the past whenever they didn't speak.

 _Not that I can ‘speak.’_   Now that did bother him.  For a little bit.  But it faded as he walked.  Most feelings faded fast enough.  It was like his inside was poked full of little holes, a sieve.  No matter how full he filled himself with emotion, will, determination, drop by drop his mind would empty itself again.  _Little holes_ , Ed didn't have try to hard to come up with that analogy.  One hand absently tugged at his mask, but a few seconds later, fell to his side, it's purpose forgotten.  

The silence stretched out, broken only by two steady treads.  One literally lost in thought.  The other losing thoughts with each step.

The rhythm broke, when Ed realized they’d walked right past the rendezvous point.  Alarm filled him, his mind alive for a second with adrenaline and focus.  They shouldn't have gotten here unchallenged.  Max was supposed to be here already.  Almost nothing got through the junkyard perimeter without Max or his 'watchdog' knowing it.

Lacking the capacity to speak, he extended a hand.  Isabel stopped, breaking her internal dialogue as she crashed into his arm.  She forced her eyes up, the distraction melting from her face.

“What is it Ed?”

Ed debated reaching for his paintbrush, but he hated using it for long phrases.  It made things awkward between them.  He motioned towards the piles of garbage around them, letting the urgency of the message pass through their old bond.  His eyes landed on a splash of red on the ground and he quickly gestured towards it.  Isabel rushed over, leaning down to inspect it.

She stood, cautiously raising her hand to her nose.  “Tomato soup,” she informed Ed, wiping her fingers on her pants with a grimace.

 _Definitely the right place, Max is the only one who can stand that stuff._   Ed gave the area a more thorough examination, feeling the pinpricks of worry, sharp at first but dulling as the search dragged on.

Isabel found the next clue, calling Ed’s attention to a faint purple-black shimmer in a perfect circle on one tower of trash.  Spectral shot residue.  For all that it didn't affect the physical world, strong enough Spectral energy blasts still left a temporary mark, albeit one visible only to spirits and spectrals, when powerful shots phased through solid matter.

“Well, looks like we all got to let off some steam tonight,” Isabel said as she forced humor into her concerned tone.  “This was…”

Ed held his hands wide apart, their agreed on symbol for ‘big.’

“Yeah, guess he was having another bad day.”

Not having a gesture handy, Ed finally reached for the brush, spelling out “Max has good days?”

Isabel turned, saw the question hanging and snorted, in genuine amusement.  For a second Ed felt a warm heat bloom in his heart at the sound.  He held on as tight as he could, but it dribbled away between the little holes in his mental fingers.  All too soon he was left with calm and empty again.  The words popped in mid-air, and a soft pitter patter sounded as the ink droplets hit the ground.

Isabel watched them fall, the corners of her smile falling sadly.

The moment was shattered by a loud rumble, the ground beneath them shaking.  Two of the towers of junk at one side of the clearing tottered unsteadily, before being knocked to the side by the passage of something monstrous between them.  A large snake-thing slither-clanked into the clearing.  It was covered in an armor of car doors, cans, metal plates, any and everything that could be found from around them, _even the kitchen sink._  Or at least the metal faucet and handles of a kitchen sink.  Ed was sure they were in there somewhere.  _Isabel would like that joke._

Three lines on each side, were dotted with alternating red and blue glowing eyes, all busily inspecting the clearing.  They widened as it spotted two more intruders and it reared upward, towering over the two Spectrals.  The metal on its sides shivered, a banging clamor issuing forth like an overly loud rattle-snakes warning.

"Who let the Grudge out?” Isabel said with the kind of calming tone usually reserved for excitable children and small dogs.  “Did Max say you could come out and play little guy?”

The rattles stopped and the menace in the eyes vanished as they rounded into pleased recognition.  Scrap lowered itself to the ground, letting her reach out to pet its nose. Or at least the car hood ornament that currently covered its nose.   _Mercedes Benze.  Wonder if that counts as fashionably stylish for a scrap monster. Everything else goes to hell but at least Scrap gets to put on fancy duds._  Ed's fingers itched to write the joke, but the moment passed to quickly, and Isabel was looking the other way.  By the time she saw the writing the moment would have passed.  Like it usually did.  Meanwhile six sets of eyes closed partway, blue-red-blue lights dimming in relaxation under Isabel's attention.  

“Scrap!  Get back in the bat you grouch.” Max’s voice came from behind one of the recently shaken towers of junk.  He ran around the edge, hunching over and breathing heavy, one hand holding his side.  Sweat stained his hair when he took off his hat to fan himself.  A gash was visible in his shirt, and his fingers were stained red when he raised his hand from his side to shake it at the Grudge.

“Max,” Isabel ran over, one hand already pulling a string of paper from the other.  Her tone was pure worry and affection, and Ed felt something pulse for a second inside.  It was warm, but it wasn't happy.  It faded quickly, helped along as he pushed he emotion out of his mind with guilt.

"It's fine." Max stopped Isabel’s rush, holding one hand up to keep her away.  He looked at Ed, his face showing awkwardness that only one of them could express.   Max looked at her again before turning to glare at his Grudge, the safest option.  Isabel caught the exchange and her own cheeks reddened before she stopped, one hand playing with the strand paper dangling from the other.

“Scrap, in now.” Max’s voice was firm and the Grudge lifted itself to tower of Max, all six sets of eyes wide as its mouth opened to yell. “Bad Scrap!  No roaring!  You could give our position away if any of them are still around hunting us.” Max interrupted the defiant gesture Scrap was making mid-roar, keeping a firm tone.   Instantly the mouth snapped shut, somehow the many red-blue spheres all managing to look contrite.

Ed would have made a joke about that once.  He knew it was funny, a teen with one hand wagging a finger sternly, the other on his hip, trying to  boss about a metal-snake spirit monster that was easily over ten times his weight.  He felt the funny-ness of it.  But before he could think of something.  Before he could get around to writing out some quip, to call Isabel’s attention to it, and bring another of her smiles, it faded.   _Guess it wasn't that funny._

A black-glowing-flash marked Scrap ending his Manifestation.  Luminous grey streamers arched from the now body-less metal armor that littered into the ground.  In a flash they zipped into the Max's bat, as Scrap returned home.  Max ran one hand on the bat and Ed's hearing, vastly improved since he'd mastered the art of silence, picked up Max whispering under his breath, “Goodboy.”

“So, judging by the looks of things, it’s a good thing we found this,” Isabel said reaching into a pack on her back and pulling out a can.  With no warning she tossed it to Max with one quick snap.  He barely moved in time, the speed and force of the toss eliciting an unintended ‘oof.’  

He looked down, frowning at the barely legible label.  “Chicken Noodle?  Seriously?  Couldn't you find any Tomato Bisque?”

Ed thought back to the six cans of Tomato Soup they’d found at the store.  Six cans Isabel had hidden at the bottom of her bag.  “Not unless it’s an absolute emergency do we tell him about these,” she’d said, winking at Ed at the time.

The memory made Ed feel like he wanted to smile, brought a moment of warmth into him.  He raised one hand to his mask but it dropped to his side a few moments later, purpose forgotten.  Just as easily, the warmth sifted out between his fingers, slipping away.

 


	4. Isaac: Never Alone Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac's life fell apart long before the world ended, the Parapocalypse was just everyone else playing catch up.

Isaac's gaze moved slowly across the junkyard.  His one good eye scanned through the binoculars hunting for signs of movement. 

 _I can’t believe I’m back to Mayview, what could they want here?  I thought the Cousinhood and Consortium had both finished with this place.  I’d hoped I was finished with it._   He shivered, but it had nothing to do with the wind tugging fitfully at his long coat.

A blur of shadowy movement crossed his view, angling in his direction.  He pulled the binoculars off, following the blur as it raced towards him.  All to soon it snapped to an unnatural stand still at his side.

“Sir,” the bunnynja spirit said, one hand snapping a salute so hard its ears quivered. “I lost track of the Consortium agents.  There’s a spirit in there, a big  one judging from the sound of it.  It's solid too, its passage obliterated all the tracks.”

“Bun,” Isaac said with a sigh as one hand rubbed the bridge of his nose to forestall a headache.  “I thought we agreed you’d stop,” Isaac gestured at the military like bearing the small spirit was trying to imitate, “all of this.”

Two more blurs zipped to his side, both of them far more relaxed.  Well relaxed in that they weren't saluting.  “Isaac, Isaac,” one was hopping frantically up and down from one hind leg to the other while raising one paw to get Isaac's attention.  “There are two more spectrals, I saw ‘em coming in from the east.”

"Where they Consortium, Shin?"

"No suits 'on 'em." Shin finally ceased his restless hop as he finished his report out. 

“Then they're probably Cousinhood.  That’s the end of this mission,” Isaac said.  All three spirits groaned, kicking dust up with their overlarge hind legs. “Enough guys.  We were here to scout, that's all.  Now we know there are at least two separate groups of Spectrals interested, and a huge spirit guarding the junkyard.  That’s all the information we need.  We go back to base and come back with more help.  We don’t go in alone.”   _We don’t do anything alone anymore._   Isaac didn't say the last part, but the ice in his bearing got the message through.  They gathered close, abandoning their complaints.  The trip back was slow, as his friends huddled close to him, examining the countryside with suspicious eyes. 

“Guys...” the three of them refused to give him space on the walk back, shooting to investigate a bush or pouncing on a small animal crossing the path with cries of ‘enemy,’ before zipping back underfoot.  _They are impossible when they get to playing bodyguard._ “Shin, Bun, Nin,” he snapped after almost tripping over them a third time.  “Scout the way back to camp.  Shin, you’re on point.  Bun, to the south.  Nin, you've got north.”  Three blurs marked their disappearance and Isaac sighed with relief.  

They were so clingy, but Isaac owed them.  They were part of his family now.  Part of the tiny circle of spirits that he could trust.  And they’d saved him.  Watched out for him.  Ever since he’d come back from his first meeting with Boss Lady, broken and torn.  Since he’d been locked up by the people he trusted most. 

They were all he had after he’d lost the old crew.  Gone were the days when he thought Isabel and Ed would always have his back.  Back when Max and he’d been…when he thought they'd had something...special.  B _ack when I believed they cared about me.  That I could trust him._

Back when his biggest worry was how his spirit had been acting up, unleashing his powers at the worst times.  Explosive shocks, random burst of wind, rumbles of thunder, everyday of high school had been a fight to keep himself in control or to think of some excuse to explain the outbursts.   Relying on Max and their friends to help him explain everything.  And sometimes, he’d fly into rages, lashing out at his friends, saying or doing things he didn't mean, driven by the slowing increasing in power, raging storm spirit inside.  He’d been at his wits end when Max had promised him a solution.  That he'd convinced the Consortium give Isaac a chance.  They never let him in before, but Max had said something, arranged something with their leader.  That night he’d gone to sleep so excited.  He'd finally seen the hall of wonders Ed and the others described, filled with floating spectrals.  It had been so wonderful to finally be part of the one thing that he couldn't share with his friends.  And then She’d showed up, so impressive.  So powerful.  Another Medium, but one that was in charge.  One that didn't have to hide herself from the world, that the Consortium called Boss.  One that could control the shared dream and manipulate the consciousness of those within.  Which was what She was there to do apparently.  

It happened so fast after that.  Max explained that She'd once offered to remove his grudge, break the bond between Spectral and tool and spirit.  He said that they thought She might be able to do the same thing for a Medium.  And then his spirit had attacked, enraged at the threat, surprising Isaac that he could even appear outside Isaac's head.  But then again, Isaac was outside his own head, so...why not?  She'd subdued the spirit so easily, and then She'd turned to Isaac...and done…something.  One second Isaac felt normal, the next like his head was being ripped in two.  His mind was stretched out like taffy as little bits were cut out.  He realized he was being separated from his spirit.  But they had been together so long, were so closely intertwined.  How could She tell if She was removing all spirit, or bits of him?  How much of his love for justice was a personal need to be fair and how much was an overbearing storm god, obsessed with seeing his laws obeyed?  Was that his childish anger that just got snipped away?  Or the petulant bluster of his spirit.  As he saw the bits of himself fly away, he noticed, they didn't just dissipate instantly.  They hung around, tormenting him, fragments of himself and his...friend?  Foe?  Companion?  They floated mockingly before they faded, and some of them got swept into the Medium.  Boss Lady, the one who was so busy separating the two of them.  He didn’t think even She noticed it, distracted as She was by the challenge of figuring out what was Isaac and what was Storm god.  But some of those bits of angry, self-righteous storm god spirit were mixing in with the being that ruled the Consortium.  By the end, Isaac could barely focus on that thought.  Barely hold any thought through the agony, but what focus he did have was bent on holding on to his spirit.  For all the fighting and the arguing, he didn’t want the spirit to fade.  It didn't deserve that end.  And he didn’t want to find out how much of himself from these past years he’d just lost.  But lost it was, his spirit fading with one last commandment, one last message before the final cut.   _‘Evil triumphs, when good men slumber.  Those without agency.  Those who stand aside, are as great a foe to Justice as the one you fight.’_   It was Isaac’s last memory of him, as puffed up a pronouncement as his spirit had ever given him.  And then everything went black.

When he came to he was back in his bed but he was alone.  For the first time since his childhood, there was no other voice in his head.  No storm of life and energy just under the surface.  No vibrant electric echo dancing through his nerves.  He needed to feel like himself, like he was still whole, so he called up the anger, the rage that was his strongest memory of his lost spirit.  By the time Max and the rest of them had raced to his house from their own beds, he’d reduced his room to fragments, smashing things, breaking them.  Breaking himself as he threw himself at the walls.  The furniture.  It was his anger and he held it close.  His damn it.  His spirit.  His soul.  They had no right to take any of it away. 

They’d locked him in one of the rooms at Mr. Spenders place.  Someone on watch at all hours to wait for him to calm down.  He’d tried to escape, but without lightning, without wind, without himself, he was nothing.  He’d exhaust himself, far faster than he used to, falling into a weary, dreamless, _thank God_ , sleep.  But as soon as he woke up, as soon as he saw one of them peek in to check on him, the anger would come flooding back.  Isaac wasn’t sure how long he’d have stayed in that state, surrounded by people he couldn't trust, after they’d…after being so violated.  Luckily they’d come.  His friends.  Three black shadows zipped through the tiny gap in one of Mr. Spenders windows.  He'd been wary at first, but they brought a message, one that could only come from someone he still trusted.  Then, they'd snuck through the house, eventually swiping a key from a sleeping Spender on the couch outside.  After that they vanished as quickly as they'd come.  For the first time since he’d gone to the Consortium, a smile slipped onto Isaac's face.  Relief flooded in, where rage and hurt had filled him up before.  He'd have answers soon.  The comfort of a true friend.  They could guard the house all they wanted.  There were other ways out.  Sure enough, before half of the hour had passed, Mr. Spender’s bedroom door slid open.  No boring white hallway greeted him on the other side.  Instead, Isaac spied the uneven floor and the tattered furniture of his one safe space.  The faint light of candles and spirits flickered from a room miles away and Doorman’s voice, called him home. 

 


	5. Johnny and the Gang: Forging Bonds of Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run from their mistakes, the Friendliest Foursome come to terms with the results of Johnny's worst/best idea yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To properly visualize what's going on in this chapter, just go to the Extra's section of the Paranatraul Hive works website, go to the Apocalypse wall paper...and appreciate Johnny and the Gang. Drink it in, then come back and read this chappy. :-p

“Faster guys,” Johnny yelled, focusing his attention on Ollie as he urged them onward.  The heavy tread pounded with surprising speed considering the sheer bulk being moved.   “RJ, you see anyone behind us?”

RJ stretched upward, cowl catching in the wind.  They twisted their neck to scan the forest behind them closely for any signs of pursuit.  A shake of the head indicated nothing was visible.

“Johnny, can we maybe, slow down,” Steven cut in, gasping.  He looked around them trying to get his bearings.  “Do you even know where we are going?”

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” Johnny grumbled.

“Uh, wait,” Ollie said as the sound of the heavy tread slowed.

“WHAT?!  This isn't a time for stopping!” Johnny looked at his friends, all staring at him in confusion.

“Johnny, you do know where we’re going right?  ‘Cause that saying doesn't mean you're s'pposed to wander aimlessly.  You still should have a destination….” Ollie cut in.

Johnny panicked, he was sure their pursuit wouldn’t cut them any slack.  Plus the more they slowed down, the more the guys would take the time to think about things.  Like the awkward... _situation_  they'd woken up into when he told them to start running.  And that wasn't a conversation he was looking to have just yet.

“Shaddup!  Of course I know where we’re going…were…” he looked about desperately.  All he saw was trees.  Lots of trees.  Then a moonbeam illuminated a gap between two branches, and through it, in the distance, his attention caught on a large hill.  No two hills.  Two very familiar looking hills.  “Mayview guys,” a hand lifted pointing at the space between the foliage.  At the distant landmark from their childhood.  "The Cousinhood convoy must have stopped close to our old stomping grounds before we split.  If there’s any place we know well enough to shake these jerks, its home.”

RJ looked, raising a hand to their eyes to gauge the distance.  Ollie and Steven looked once, but returned their attention to Johnny with doubt evident in their expression.

“Bro, don’t you think that’s the first place the Cousinhood’ll look for us?  That’s where we joined up with them,” Ollie voiced his concern.

“And what’s even there anymore?  That place was probably cleaned out ages ago?!” Steven cut in.

“Its home,” Johnny said his face turning red as he tried to swivel and look at both of his friends at once.  “And the way I see it, home is where you’re headed.”

“Uh…” Ollie spoke up awkwardly, “you gotta know that’s not how it…look we really should get you a book ‘a quotes or something’.”

“No one ever learned nothin’ from a book they couldn’t learn from livin’.”

“That’s just…not…that’s…not how it works, the whole point of school is to learn from books about...” Ollie trailed off, looking at Steven in frustration before shrugging one shoulder.

Steven shrugged the other shoulder but they did it out of sync and the whole body wobbled.  The one body all four of them were sticking out of.  The one topic Johnny'd steered the conversation away from their entire run thus far.

“Easy guys,” RJ complained as the jostling body shook their head most, as it was the highest head on the heap.  “I’m getting dizzy up here!”

“At least you are up there,” Steven complained, “the view down here isn't nearly as nice, with your stupid cloak covering my face half the time.”  Steven tried to lift one of the hands to the zipper of RJ’s cloak, but both massive palms stayed at the side of the body.  “Oh come on, whose got the arms right now?  Can’t I just use one?  Why’d we only have two anyway?  I know I said I wouldn't ask about this till we were safe.  But at least tell me why there are four heads, but not eight arms?”

Johnny growled back, “Well its’ not like I knew what I was doin’ or nothin’.  There’s no self-help book on how to do this.”

“And you wouldn’t read it anyway apparently,” RJ cut in with a grin.

“That’s right!” Johnny said smugly before realizing a joke was being made at his expense.  He tried to move one hand to shake at RJ in a threatening manner, but again both arms refused to budge.  “Oh come on, whose got the arms.”

“That’s what I asked, and I asked it first, so answer me, not him, “ Steven cut in.

“I got the arms and the legs, and nobody gets to do anything, till you all stop fighting.  We got to talk this out’,” Ollie said flatly.

“Whose yellin’, were having a gentlemanly discourse,” Johnny shouted back.  “About how you all owe me for saving your necks, literally.”

“Technically,” RJ said with a snort, as they stared down from their vantage point at the heads and body beneath, “it looks like It’s Ollie we owe.  This looks like his body, or kinda like his.  Though I don't remember it being this big...and bumpy.”

“I SAID I didn’t know what I was doin’, my jacket got tore in the fight, and ol’ Anvil-head got damaged when that happened and gave up the ghost.”  Johnny paused with a grin, hoping the joke would ease the tension.  None of his buddies snickered, not even RJ.  With a shrug he finished.  “Anyway, the hit that took him out went through me too and I was down for the count.  When I came to Ollie was the only one still whole’.  Just Ollie, most of me, and parts of you two.  And three dead Cousinhood goons.”

“Which we were fightin’ why?” Steven said, “I thought you were one of them.  You an’ Ollie.”

Johnny stuttered a second before looking down, zipping his mouth in embarrassment as a shamed flush reached his cheeks.  Joining the Cousinhood has been his idea and being wrong still stung fierce-like.

“It wasn’t right,” Ollie said tiredly answering for Johnny, who shot him a grateful look.  “They talked a good talk.  Better than those suity-pajama creeps.  All that 'get rid of the freaky monsters and bad things.'  But it turns out they only cared about us, ‘cause we could see the monsters to fight ‘em.”

“So, not RJ and me,” Steven said a little mellow, the whole 'half of the foursome not being spectral-special-like' bothered him and RJ.  

“They told us you guys had to go.  There wasn't enough supplies anymore to keep wasting on all the ‘Normals,’” acid hissed in Johnny's voice when he used the word that had become an insult in this spectral-ruled world.  No one talked bad about one of the gang.  No one.  His explanation finished in a rough growl, “Anyway, Ollie ‘n me said they could shove that idea right then.  And we gently tendered our resignations.  With a one-two no-thank-you.”  Both hands curled into fists and mimed punching motions.  “We don’t split up.  The foursome is inseparable.”

“Literally now,” RJ added, but the faint shine of teeth from within the cowl made it clear the statement was meant as a joke.

“We learned,” Ollie finished up, “that apparently you don’t retire from the Cousinhood.  Doesn’t jibe with the whole, ‘us vs. them,’ thing they got goin’ on.  So next thing we know, they are callin’ us traitors and pulling out their tools.  So I shielded and Johnny starts jabbing metal spikes at them from his jacket. They duck behind tables and we take the distraction as our que to run out the back.  Outside we grabbed you two and made a break for it.  We didn't get to far before those three hunters caught us.”

“Which gets us back to the clearing and the fight.  And the losing my head.  That part I remember,” Steven grumbled baring his teeth, “It stung.  But the story does stop short of the whole….this.”  Ollie must have taken pity, because this time one giant hand responded to Steven’s command and motioned  to the massive body.  “I mean even if you…put us on here…somehow…which I’d like an explanation for too while we are givin’ ‘em out.  Ollie’s big,” he grinned to show it wasn’t meant meanly, “but not THIS big.”

“Well like I said,” Johnny wasn’t quite as confident sounding now as he gave up finally on stalling.  “My jacket got busted in the fight, when one of ‘em punched something harder than metal, right through it and me.  Next thing I know, my tool powers fizzled and I lost all my metal-bending,” Johnny rolled his eyes at RJ’s nickname for the tool’s power of projecting and reshaping the metal plates and spikes that had, over time sprouted from Johnny’s favorite jacket. 

“It’s a good name for it,” RJ grumbled.

“If you like soundin’ cartoony.  That Avatar stuff rotted your brain.”

“Stuff it,” Steven said to RJ.  "And stop stalling Johnny."

“Fine.  So I wake up, see you two out for good, or real close.  And see I’m not much better off with a huge hole letting some fresh air into my insides.  And Ollie looks alive, barely, but completely knocked out.  And I’m figuring its the end of the foursome, when I see metal-face, or a little faded floaty version of him hovering around my jacket.  He sorta,” Johnny waves at his head with one of their hands, “talks to me in my head.  Says he thinks he can help me and himself out.  But not like before.  It wont be fast enough to power up in a new tool.  Says I got to be the tool.”

“So you’re a Medium now,” Steven whistled.  “Well were all sorts of screwed then.  No way the Cousinhood’ll give up chasing us if you got a spirit in you.”

Johnny felt a wave of relief.  He was the one who got them into Cousinhood, but all four of them had been part of the camp and culture for over a year.  Part of him had worried that some of the Cousinhood dogma might have colored their view of his consenting to a possession.  Of being one of the enemy.  

 _"Technically, you’re all a Medium now,"_ a voice spoke in four minds at once.

“Uh…tell me one of you learned how to throw your voice…in my head,” Steven added looking slightly nauseous.

“I think that’s Johnny’s…er our, guest.” Ollie replied.  “Which how does this even work again?  I’m not Red.  The Cousinhood’s not strong on Spectral Meta-whatever-ics, but they were pretty clear on the base rules.  And spirits not possessing Spectral's who don’t match their color is a pretty solid one.  Or possessing more than one person for that matter.”

_"This is new to me as well and I’m older than the founders of that cult you boys were playing with."_

“Makes sense to me,” Johnny added shrugging their shoulders, “Friends should share everything.”

“That’s not…” one of the other heads raised a hand to block Ollie’s mouth, before he wasted breath interjecting sense into a Johnny-ism.

“So, he says his power is forging metal and fire, ‘cause that was what made up his Spirit body.   And he thinks in me, maybe as a Medium I can reshape my flesh and blood to fix the hole.  But I figure, if it could keep me alive why not all of us.  So I crawled around, till I reached Ollie and sorta," Johnny pulled the bodies two hands together interlacing the fingers, "mushed us together.”

“That’s disgust-“ Steven began before RJ cut him off, “soooo cool!”

Johnny perked up at getting some support for his idea.  One that even by his standards was pretty stupid and reckless,.  “So it worked out, but I didn’t have time to figure out how to put everyone back together, once you all started waking back up.  I figured someone would be coming when the other three didn't get back.  So I sort of grabbed everything handy…”

“And he means everything,” Ollie added a little sickly in his stomach.  “I came to before you finished.  And, Johnny bro, I think you shoved a few bits of the guys we were fighting in and some grass and rocks and…”

“What do you want from me?  I wanted to have all your...fiddly-bits for later.  I did the best I could!  I’m not a rocket surgeon.”

“Tha-“

“Don’t Ollie,” RJ and Steven cut him off.

“Anyway,” Johnny flashed a confident grin, his outburst already forgotten as he tried to focus on the positive.  “When we get his mojo back, me an’ Anvil-face-”

_"It…It’s Anvil-face and I…I mean FORGE.  Forge and I."_

“Like he said,” Johnny kept on grinning, “when WE all get somewhere we can hide and rest, I’ll figure out how to split us back into bits.  How hard can it be?  I got us this far.  Two hands, two legs.  Just got to do it four times in miniature.”

“I like it,” RJ grinned.

“I don’t,” Steven grumbled, “But…I guess as long as we four-”

“Five,” Ollie said.

 _"Don’t count me in this party.  I’m here because there was no other choice and I needed to survive.  If I’d tried for a new tool, the Cousinhood would have caught me and It was bad enough being indirectly used by that scum through the loud, stupid one."_   Johnny growled, punching his head to punish the spirit.  He saw stars for a second, as he realized how bad an idea that had been.  Laughter from all his friends was small solace for the shooting headache.  " _The smart thing would have been mend yourself.  Maybe wake up the big one and let him carry you while you worked on it.  You lost your chance at a clean escape when you sidetracked to grab those two at the camp.  When they caught up, you lost a chance to regain your lead when you fought, instead of leaving the larger one to delay them.  You are still losing our chance to evade your pursuers now as time is wasted explaining this nonsense instead of running.  Time and again you doom yourself, by refusing to commit to survival.  You can’t win a fight if you aren’t willing to sacrifice."_

“Hey,” Johnny said striking what he hoped was an inspirational pose.  Except only the right half of the body listened.  The left hand was busy scratching Ollie’s head.  “You can’t win all the fights, but winning any of them isn’t worth it if you don’t have something worth fighting for.  Like friends.”

“That….ok that’s a good one.” Ollie said grinning.  “Friendship Hug?”

"Friendship Hug," the other three heads agreed.

For a second both arms floundered wildly as four heads fought to control it before the giant body finally managed an awkward self-hug.

“We’ll have to work on that,” Johnny said glumly.  “But once were safe.  RJ, watch our backs.  Ollie, how about you start things back up.  Easier with one person running than all of us.  Steven…keep an eye on those hills for as long as possible.  Don’t let us get lost in these woods.  Friendship Fusion, full speed to Mayview.”

“Home’s where your headed,” Ollie said with a smile and a friendly eye-roll shared by all the heads but Johnny, who just nodded seriously at the sage advice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like seriously, finishing up the character intro paragraphs I realized I NEEDED comic relief or I'd hate myself by the time I finished doing what I intended to do to all the Pnat characters in this story. So bam, Johnny and the gang found their way from side-characters into P.O.V.s for the story.


	6. Max: Hanging by a Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max plays Chef, Is plays nurse, and Ed plays Soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out the intro's are over and the chapters get longer. They may not stick to the order you've seen thus far, as chronology of events trumps following a M-I-E-I-J order. Also the previous chapter was the happiest you'll get for awhile. >_> What...you were expecting smiles from a story about the parapocalypse!? ^_^

It took little time to set up a new camp with Ed and Isabel to help.  Isabel whipped up a fire with ease, extruding a pile of paper kindling and borrowing the still warm logs of Max’s prior fire.  Ed gathered the packs, arranging them as back rests around the fire before cleaning the trash of the junkyard out of their camp.  Meanwhile Max wandered a larger circle doing the exact opposite, scattering bits of metal in an ever widening circle of debris around their clearing and the towers of trash nearby.  As he did so, Scrap guided him through the still challenging process of tying little strands of magnetism between the pieces of trash.  The trick was balancing the pull just enough to keep them all still, but only barely.  Just bumping one piece of metal out of place, should lead to it being pulled to which ever neighbor was closer, causing a clamor as it had earlier in the night when the Consortium Agents had tried to sneak up on him.  Plus, it was just good sense to surround your field of potential battle with metal objects if your specialty was magnetism.  Max had learned a long time ago that the alternative of carrying a pile of scrap in your backpack had its downsides. 

A spectral thrum of energy pulsed from his bat and reverberated in his mind, letting him know that Scrap was either satisfied, or tired.  More likely tired, since Manifesting and then damaging himself enough to return to the bat was draining. 

“Got ya buddy,” Max muttered to the bat before turning and heading back to the camp.  The magnetic sixth sense that Scrap had taught him to use made his trip back easy for all that he walked through a littered field of cans and car parts.

Back at the fire, Isabel had pulled out a larger pot than the small serving bowl Max had spilled in the fight.  She had it balanced on a precarious tripod of poles before pouring in the soup.  It was the best option for their group meals.  His bat/chain trick wasn’t workable when balancing a pot for three, not if he didn’t want his arm to get tired. 

“I got it, Isabel,” Max said, stepping in to oversee the process.  Isabel might be a master fighter, ace tool wielder, unmatched medium, general kicker of all asses and taker of all names, and most recently connoisseur of fine literature, but no one had apparently ever bothered to feed Eightfold a cookbook and Isabel’s Home Ec grades before their lives went sideways were…not up to the same level of excellence as her other talents.  Max and Ed had learned that the hard way.  She could be trusted to boil water, most of the time, but soup was all too easily burned. 

“Whatever, Max,” Isabel started to object, before catching a poorly concealed wince cross Max’s face as he stretched the wound on his side reaching into his backpack to pull out a makeshift ladle.  Her eyes traced to the still damp spot on his side where his shirt showed a clear tear.  She frowned as she stepped back letting him handle the soup while she watched him, hawk-like, for any more signs of discomfort.  For his part, Max hid any further reactions, knowing she was waiting for a sign of weakness to pounce and play nurse.  Which was awkward even when Ed wasn’t sitting across the fire, watching the entire thing with mannequin stiffness.  Best not to stir the pot, unless that pot had soup in it of course.  

Soon enough the smell said done, even if it wasn’t a hundredth as good as tomato soup smelled.  Of course Max was alone in that opinion amongst his friends.  _Except for Isaac, HE liked tomato bisque.  He used to get so excited when dad made it at home._   The hand stirring the soup trembled a second as memories of Zoey, Isaac, and his dad sitting around a table devouring tomato bisque and grilled cheese while playing some stupid game, dragged Max away from the fire and the junkyard.  The ghost of laughter and friendly camaraderie of days past drew him from one bright memory to another, until a flash of heat in his hand recalled him.  His hand throbbed having been held in place to long over the boiling soup.  With a curse, Max jerked his hand back, waving it lightly, before seeing Isabel start beside him.  She looked from his hand, then up to his eyes, which were stinging.  His eyes felt red.   _Just irritation from the smoke._ Max collected his emotions internally, holding them in an iron grip, just to be safe.  _I will not have a breakdown over soup, god damn it_.  Beside him Isabel tensed, misreading his sudden shift as his hand or his side paining him.  Max leveled a flat gaze at her, projecting confidence and calm as he flexed his hand once, slowly, to show it was fine.  _I’m fine.  Everything’s fine.  Just got caught off guard by a stray memory._

The bat as his back vibrated again, a soundless spectral thrum, and Max knew there was at least one person not fooled in the slightest by his act.  He sighed, forcing his shoulders to relax and project calm towards his tool as well.  Scrap was good with anger, irritation, excitement, and even for some people fondness.  Remorse and nostalgia; however, were definitely not in the Grudges limited emotional vocabulary, and things Scrap didn’t understand tended to make him angry.  With all the leeway Max gave the spirit in the bat and the depth of their connection, it was best to keep things peaceful.  Scrap's anger and bloodlust could bleed through at times into Max’s own emotions.  Scrap could even manipulate Max's spectral energy when he was distracted, finding a way to use its magnetism from within the bat, without Max’s conscious thought. The price of their closer bond and all of Scrap's help in mastering magnetism. 

Distraction at last came in Isabel finally catching the smell of soup herself and turning to the pot with a hungry grin.

Max smiled in relief, pulling two fresh bowls from his pack as he moved closer to the fire himself.  With quick practiced dips he ladled soup into each bowl.  Then he grabbed a thermos, filling it as well, before capping it and holding it out to Ed.  Ed took it silently, though he nodded in a way they’d come to accept as his new equivalent for “thank you.”  Ed smoothly grabbed his paintbrush with the hand not cradling the thermos and began to slowly work his way away from the campfire to start the first patrol.  His departure was cautious and his face down, as he navigated the magnetized-junk alarm system with delicacy.

Isabel watched Ed depart, a frown on her face.  “I…wish he’d still eat with us.” She said absently once he’d turned around a pile of junk and was out of sight.  As soon as the words left her mouth she gave a start, surprised that she'd expressed the thought out loud.

“He doesn’t...” Max motioned to his face with his hand, miming lifting the mask, “he’s just not ready yet for that Iz.  Give him time.”

“Time,” she sighed, “It’s been over a year Max, a year since Spender and Boss Lady and this mess.  A year and he’s taken the mask off around us what…two, three times?  Does he really think we’d care?”

“It’s not what we feel.  You know that Iz.  It’s what he feels.”

“Or doesn’t,” Isabel added her head dropping towards the soup bowl in front of her with a frown.  She reached out for a book and started tearing strips of paper before dropping them into the soup to soak, like thin black and white speckled bits of bread.  

Max let her words and the odd dietary habit both go un-commented on.  Ed and Isabel…were, or at least had been, something before it all went down.  What that "something" was of course, was a mystery unsolvable to anyone else.  Max had been in sync with Isaac, but it was far less complicated relationship.  Lacking as it did, Ed and Isabel’s creepy, near psychic levels of communication and brain-sharing.  After that thing had ripped through Ed, though, there was a disconnect between them. She insisted he was a different person.  That whatever Ed used to feel, he just didn’t anymore.  That he didn't feel anything, or at least didn’t for very long.  Max didn’t understand the theory, but on spectral stuff, he was always going to be a few years behind someone like Isabel, born and raised to the spooky side.  Ed still had to feel things though, Max figured, or he’d have wandered off and left them months ago, instead of sticking by them.  Why else would he be spending every day helping them guard a home if had lost all meaning to him.  Then again, maybe if Ed didn’t feel anything, he didn’t see a reason to leave?  Maybe it really was just habit and momentum that kept them together as a team.  Max knew he wasn’t the Ed expert, but he didn’t believe that part.  Not completely.  Ed still made jokes on the rare occasion, and sometimes his head, even obscured by the mask, had that same tilt it used to have when he was smiling at something with amused curiosity or fondness.  Especially if it was Isabel he was looking at or ‘talking’ to.  And sometimes Ed didn’t look so amused when Isabel and Max…a shake of his head and a frown banished that thought.  The rest of the meal was punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the fire.  The scrape of spoons on bowls.  Faint muffled slurps. 

Max finished first, probably because he wasn’t waiting for the torn up pages to turn soggy.  He debated a second helping, but passed on the idea.  His heart just wasn’t in it for Chicken Noodle, for anything really.  He set his bowl down by the fire and stood, for the moment dismissing the simmering pot.  Anything they couldn’t finish would go in another thermos for the road.  Serve as a cold quick breakfast tomorrow.   _But first, let Isabel and Ed decide if they wanted seconds before I put it away_.  Max moved away from his backpack stepping from the fire and slipping his hands into his jacket pocket to ward off the chill that stalked just outside the light of the fire. 

His right hand pricked for a moment on something sharp, and Max jerked his hand out of the pocket, before cautiously slipping his hand back in.  He pulled it back out, holding the offending object.  A key sat in his hand, a faint red glow visible only due to the darkness.  Max frowned, overcome by a sense of violation and anger.  The key didn’t belong in his pocket, it didn’t belong anywhere except in the most secure pouch of his backpack.  And he hadn't moved it from there.  Even separated from his bat, Max felt a muted thrum of spectral vibration from Scrap, identifying the culprit.  Sometimes Scrap liked to move things around and leave surprises for MAx.  Especially if it found a piece of metal it particularly liked the feel of, like a cat or dog bringing its master a small animal or toy.  But this particular key was not on the approved list.  _You know you are NOT...allowed to play with this._ Max thought at the bat sternly, trying to focus on anger rather than on the heavier-than-it-looked object in his hand.  _Why on earth would you put this in my pocket?_  It had probably happened while he was distracted by memories of dinners with his family and Isaac.  Max didn’t think Scrap had any real idea what the key meant, just knew it was an important piece of metal to Max.  Like other pieces of metal were important to it.  Maybe it was just putting it there, probably in a misguided belief that it would help.  But it didn’t help.  It certainly didn’t spark the same warm memories as he’d had before of the good times.  No…the key only reminded him of the end.

 

* * *

 

 *Flashback*

Max had waited three whole weeks after Isaac’s disappearance.  Three weeks of pretending to be as clueless as his friends in their search.  Three weeks of biding his time and acting oblivious.  All the while certain, he at least, knew exactly where Isaac had gone.  It had been blindingly obvious when Spender hadn’t been able to find the key to the room on his person.  Especially when there was no sign of an escape in the room, just a pair of keys on the bed.  One was Spender's key, somehow on the inside of a room it only locked from the outside.  And the other key.  A key Max had given to him so long ago, now abandoned and left behind.  The pieces were so obvious to Max, after all he knew about Doorman. 

After three weeks his friends finally decided they couldn’t keep up the nightly searches and that Max didn’t need a 24/7 watch to make sure he was ok.  Three weeks before he finally got them to agree that Isaac wouldn’t be found till he was ready.  That they needed to give him time to come to that point on his own. 

Not that he’d taken his own advice.  The minute they’d given him the privacy he’d been waiting for, free of regular checkups or invitations to scouting parties, he’d raced for the woods, seeking out the path to the old abandoned home hidden there.  He’d gotten lost along the way a few times.  More often than not he’d come to the house by way of Doorman in the past.  Back when Isaac had popped open his bedroom door and invited him over to crash.  But at last he found the twisted path to a drooping porch over a leaning door, of a crooked house. A house with slanted windows, a swarm of spirits crawling about every inch.

He caught his breath trying to project an aura of calm and hide the tremble in his hands as he walked up to the door and knocked.  Once, twice, a few more times.  He knocked louder, hoping it was just size of the house, not even realizing how hard his knocks had gotten till he looked at his hand, blood welling through scrapes along his knuckles.  He debated breaking the door down or smashing a window and crawling through.  He stopped the train of thought.  That that kind of trespass would just agitate Isaac more.  Still he could be stubborn, in a completely non-confrontational manner.

Max sat down outside the house, leaning against an already leaning door, and started talking.  Loudly.  Starting with how much he missed Isaac.  Their time together.  Their smiles and laughing.  Awkward conversations, inside jokes.  Holding hands.  How worried Isabel and Ed and Spender where.  How Zoey had asked why Isaac didn’t come around anymore.  How his dad had asked the same question, but in a way that hinted he was there if Max needed to talk, _about relationships.  Breakups_.  About how much less fun their family game nights where without him to be the fourth for team games.  Or just how much he missed the sound of Isaac’s breathing, his laugh, even his smell.  

Max switched gears, going over a list of apologies and explanations he’d prepared.  About how he thought Isaac wanted free of the spirit.  That it had been driving Isaac crazy.  That it had been driving them apart.  How he thought that if Isaac had been in the Consortium, the last thing that made him feel unwanted in their group would be gone.  How he’d just wanted to help.

Max had talked till his voice was hoarse and the starlight had faded to dawn.  He’d talked till he was reduced to whispers and the birdsong greeting the day was louder by degrees than his scratchy words.  And when the door had finally opened, his hope had been dashed as he found himself face to face with yet another door a doorknob head resting on top of it.  Max had tried to look past Doorman into the foyer, but Doorman’s rectangular frame was too similar to the door he obstructed.

“You should go, Master Max.”  It wasn’t said coldly or with anger, Max supposed he should be grateful that at least Isaac’s spirit adviser didn’t outright hate him.  A small blessing.  _If Doorman doesn't hate me_ , _maybe he can talk Isaac around to forgiving me.  Maybe he doesn't believe its my fault._ Amazing how tightly one could cling to the thinnest of strands while watching the rope he’s holding unravel. 

“Is he…” Max’s strained voice disintegrated in a flurry of coughs.  “Isaac’s safe?” 

“As much as he can be,” Doorman had replied.  With no malice, just neutral calm.  

“Will he-“ Max’s voice gave out again and it was just as well.  Max wasn’t sure himself if the question was going to end with ‘he be ok,’ or ‘we be ok?’ 

“I don’t know,” Doorman replied, “But this…this won’t help.  Humans, especially the young ones as you two are, you are quick to act and quicker to react.  And when hurt, it is hard to draw you from reaction to reason.  Harder still," Doorman paused and looked meaningfully, as meaningfully as a blank doorknob face could, "with the source of the hurt nearby."  Max winced in response.  "I have explained the logic of the situation as best as I can grasp it.  As well as my belief that it was misunderstanding, a road paved of good intent and not ill that lead to this pass.” 

For a second Doorman’s words turned from statement to question.  Max felt pathetic in how eagerly he nodded in assurance, as he tried to croak out that he obviously hadn’t ever meant for Isaac of all people to be hurt.   “But…” Max began when his throat finally felt up to speaking. 

“Time, Master Max.  Time heals what wounds that reason cannot.” 

With that the door had closed again, not with a slam, but with a soft finality that still made it clear Max would get no more.  Max had stood, numb and yet raw at the same time, in front of the leaning little door of that crooked little house, conscious of his audience of nervous spirits watching him from every shadow.  Finally under their wary gaze, he’d started to back away slowly, before abruptly stopping and reversing course. 

One trembling hand reached into his pocket and pulled out the spare key to his room. The one he’d given Isaac, what felt like ages ago, so that they could arrange late night slumber parties, sneak off for time away from Isabel and Ed, stock the Doorman’s house with snacks from the store, or just get to school on time when one or the other was running late.  The second key Isaac had left behind when he’d disappeared out from under Mr. Spender’s watch three weeks prior. 

Max set it front of the door, looking up at the various windows of the house, trying to see if any shadow, any face flashed in any of them.  Nothing moved, or plenty of things moved, all spirits of various hue and shapes, but no flash of orange hair or blue eyes, quickly ducking from sight.  With a sigh Max turned around and walked away.  Inside he felt himself cling tighter to that thread-thin hope.  That someday or some night, his own door would open and he’d get the chance to make things right.  A chance to explain how very, very sorry he was. 

Max clung to that hope, losing sleep every night, as he closed his door and watched the it until  exhaustion claimed him.  Hoping every night for the knob to turn.  Everynight spent falling asleep sitting against his headboard, the small of his back leaning against the pillow, and just watching and waiting. Every night, until the sound of fire engines woke him, and he looked out his window towards the woods to see a pillar of smoke rising above the tree tops.

* * *

 

*Flash Forward*

Max’s control slipped, his emotions and memories scattering in a dozen different directions.  Flashes of his frantic scramble through the dark woods, pulse racing, panic clawing at his throat.  Of desperation as he through the twisted, smoking beams and frames of the burned out husk of an abandoned home.  Pain in his fingers as they sifted through ash.  Anger and frustration at having to dodge confused and worried firemen trying to keep him out of the still collapsing building.  The raw soreness in a throat seared by smoke and still trying to cry out Isaac's name.  The guilt and stinging heat of tears when all he found at last, a single glowing key, buried amidst the smoking wreckage, before being dragged out, frozen in shock, as the last supports of the building gave way with a chorus of snaps and groans.

Abruptly free from his memories, Max stumbled in place.  His hand still throbbed with the heat of another night, long past.  Heat that he could still feel from the glowing red key in his palm.  He took a step, anything to shake the moment and move forward, break the trance.  His foot absently nudged a can, his magnetic senses forgotten.  The can hung for a second, before the shift in magnetic balance, snapped it to the nearest other piece of metal.  The shift was followed by more, as the new larger piece pulled others to it, the chain escalating.  Until the entire web of magnetized metal was erupting in cacophony of crashes and bangs. 

“Max?” Isabel was on her feet in seconds, her second bowl of soup already spilling into the fire, a few chicken broth soaked pages flaring into incandescence.  Her hands were out in front, forming a wary guard as a red shield pressed itself outward from her skin.  Her eyes searched the junkyard for strangers.  Seeing nothing and observing Max himself wasn’t on guard, she relaxed slightly, before moving towards him.

“Max what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Max got out, as he violently shoved the key back into his pocket and out of sight.  He turned back, lowering the brim of his hat to conceal the wetness of his eyes.  His one hand refused to give up its grip on the key in the pocket, but with the other he motioned to the pile of junk at his feet.  “I just lost track of my own feet and messed up the alarm.”

Isabel frowned, disbelief in her expression.   “Max…”

“It’s nothing just..uh…” Max shrugged and instantly regretted it as his still healing side throbbed angrily.  The poorly concealed pained response, provided  explanation enough for Isabel.

“Max, let me fix it.  Your hurt.  You can't just trust the your spectral resilience.  If you let cellulitis set in, or worse gangrene, even Scrap, being a Spectral, and Eightfold’s little trick for faster healing bandages won’t be able to keep you from being out for the count for weeks.  And Ed and I,” her voice caught a second, “I can’t do this on my own Max.  I can’t take the quiet for weeks while you’re trying to heal.”

Max frowned, but moved toward the fire.  He sat by it for a second, stiffly moving, before with a sigh pulling his hand out of his pocket.  Clearly awkward he took both hands to the hem of his hoodie and shirt, grasping them both, and lifting them both over his head in one quick rush.

Isabel hurried over, knowing his surrender was at best temporary.  She stretched one hand to pull the slit in her palm wide and urge a slip of paper outward.  Her other hand she extended towards the fire, letting the heat banish the chill so as not to discomfort the patient.  Fingers warm, she traced it carefully along a crusted and bloody raw mark on Max’s side.

“It’s not deep.  Not a laceration at least.  Just a really bad abrasion," Max winced as her fingers caught, "Well an abrasion, with a small tear."  A more cautious exploration of the tear, made Max git his teeth.  "At least it's jagged, not sharp.  And no visible punctures.  So not likely to be Tetanus.  Thankfully.”  Isabel’s fingers traced a pattern on Max’s skin as she inspected, and away from the soreness of the wound, it was a far more pleasant feeling.  Max felt the heat in his cheeks that had little to do with the heat of the fire, her words slipped as he thought of another hand exploring his skin, another time.  He ducked his head as he tried to control his thoughts, realizing she'd kept talking.  He barely caught the question at the end of her observation.  “Do you even remember when you had your last Tetanus shot?”

“Tetanus?”  Max laughed awkwardly pulling her attention from their closeness with teasing, while she focused on pulling a strip of surprisingly bandage-soft paper from one hand and started spooling it out.   “Isabel we live in a mostly abandoned town, surrounded by a junkyard.  Oh yeah, with no doctors and a hospital we can barely turn the lights on for, if and only if the generator’s not feeling testy that day.  If Tetanus is gonna get us, it’s gonna get us.  Besides, I'm sure I got one of those shots like three, maybe four years ago.  Don’t those things last practically forever?”

“The Td and the Tdap aren’t permanent, Max,” she scowled, slipping the bandage around Max's waist, before tightening it enough to make him wince.  “Ten years.”  Another loop and another tight pull to drive her seriousness home.  “Maybe more, maybe less, but that’s how long we can hope you'll be protected.  Of course normally I’d its not the biggest of our worries, but YOU,” she punctuated the ‘you’ with a glare and a third loop of the bandage pulled uncomfortably tight.  “You spend all your time guarding a junkyard and playing with rusty metal.  So forgive me if I worry about you becoming a permanent home to a batch of Clostridium tetani and spending months dealing with muscle spasms, fever, headache.  That's assuming you don't end up dying on us.  Though the lockjaw at least would mean less arguing.”  She finished with a scowl as she tied a quick knot on the loops, binding the bandages together.  Only then did she stop to look at her work, satisfied.  Then she turned to give the rest of Max a once over, making sure she'd missed nothing.  As her eyes wandered, she realized yet again, that Max, like the rest of them had grown lean, hard from the trials of their survival.  Her own cheeks grew red and she quickly turned to look at the fire rather than finish the inspection.

“Lockjaw, Td, Tdap, lacerations, gangrene, cellulitis, Clostr- Teta-whatever…geeze Is.  Were you nibbling on another medical dictionary?”  Max said as he pretended not to notice her blush and his own, instead slipped his shirt back on with awkward haste.

“Max,” Isabel glared, “you know I’ve been eating every book I can find from the hospitals we salvage.  One of us should know what to do when something bad enough happens that our spirits can’t fix it.  As it is I can barely keep the regular people in Mayview healthy, since they don’t even have the resilience of being a Spectral to help them along.  I just apply Doctopi liberally to all the hurt people to numb the pain and hope that the sterile bandages I can make do enough.  With bad nutrition and food getting harder to find, even that’s not…”

Max winced both at what his words had drug out of Isabel, and at the stiff tug of the bandages against his wound as he threw an arm around Isabel and pulled her close.

“I’m sorry Iz, I didn’t mean it like that.  I’m just…it’s one of those days y’know.  Scrap’s in my head.  I'm in my head.  Thinking about...things the way they were.  I just want to lash out at something.”

“I know,” Isabel added softly, “And you were thinking about him again, earlier.  Weren’t you.”

Max stiffened.  “I…yeah.  I miss him.”

“We all do Max,” Isabel added then more softly, “Though not like you do, I guess.  I know if I...if I lost Ed, I'd...If I haven’t already…” her voice caught and Max squeezed a little harder, ignoring the protesting twinge of pain in his side.

“Max…” Max heard her tone turn embarrassed, needy.  His entire body tensed, knowing what was coming and dreading it, even as part of him felt the same aching need right then.  She felt the stiffness and her own guilt and embarrassment colored her face as she quickly changed her words.  “Never mind.”   Tough Isabel, trying to show the stiff upper lip and shove all the mess back under the rug instead of admitting what they both felt.   _So alone._

“Come on Iz,” Max said, as he shifted positions to lay down on the ground, his head resting in his pack.  His left arm, the one facing her, stretched out, and he patted the empty space beneath it invitingly.  "Sorry I flinched.  You know it’s not you.  We talked about this.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting to hold someone or be held.  I won’t tell anyone about your super-secret clingy soft spooning side.”

She glared, even as she slumped down next to him, her shoulders bunching under his outstretched arm, and her head landing with a thud on is shoulder. "It’s not clingy, or soft.  Just…you can’t do this anymore, with him.  And Ed won’t even let me get close enough for a hug.  So we both just need to the comfort of a fellow warrior.  It’s platonic and understandable.  And perfectly normal.” 

_This isn’t normal.  Supply runs to nearby town grocery stores and farms to scrape together enough food to feed a bunch of refugees, when we should be out at parties and celebrating senior year isn’t normal.  Eating medical text books and worrying about keeping a bunch of people free of infection instead of worrying about prom or college applications isn’t normal.  Huddling around a campfire in junkyard with me, while the guy you still feel for is out patrolling for crazed spectrals and you worry he’s become a monster, isn’t normal.  Of course pining after a guy whose dead, that I fucked over, while secretly worrying that if I'd kept talking every day at that damn house's leaning door, he'd have not been in that house when it burned.  That if I kept hunting in the ash I could have found his ghost and said...something?  Goodbye?  Forgive me?  So neither of us gets to be normal.  It’s you and me, Iz, clinging to the same tiny ledge, because my rope’s burned to ash and yours is unraveling while you watch._

“Comfort of a fellow warrior,” Max snorted using his snarkiest tone to obscure the morose thoughts that had followed Isabel’s words, “Sure buddy.  Tough manly, warrior spooning.” Max leaned his head more gently than his words implied, to rest on top of Isabel’s.  His left arm pulled up behind her as she curled up against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing closer.  Her breathing slowed, and Max could tell she was already slipping into her Eightfold trance, to talk about…whatever she and Eightfold talked about when they lay by the fire.  _Probably Ed.  Definitely Ed._  Max let his one arm hold on tightly, projecting comfort and assurance as best he could for Isabel.  But his free hand, shook in time with a quiver in his lip, as it slipped into his pocket.  His eyes stung again,  this time there was no pretending it was smoke from the fire, as his hand found the key hidden in his pocket and gripped it hard enough for the points on is side to bite deeply into his trembling fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you squint you probably thought you saw Maxabel there. You weren' the only one...


End file.
